RV There Yet? Read online

  Praise for RV There Yet?

  “Diann Hunt is a one of a kind writer who makes me laugh with her witty phrases and loveable characters. Lady Lit Lovers will not be disappointed with this latest book.”

  —Tracey Bateman, ACFW President, author of

  Leave it to Claire and Claire Knows Best

  “RV There Yet? is a sassy, hilarious story of friendships that last a lifetime—with a little help from chocolate. I laughed all the way through, but it was more than a humorous story—it was a welcome reminder that we baby boomers aren’t getting older, we’re just hitting our stride. Buy this book for yourself and your best friends. And some DeBrand truffles to eat while you read.”

  —Colleen Coble, author of Alaska Twilight,

  a Women of Faith selection

  “From the get-go, Diann Hunt makes copious use of feminine humor to pad the emotional potholes that cannot be avoided on this journey to spiritual healing. RV There Yet? is definitely ‘a girl thing,’ that will leave you light-hearted, and grateful for lifelong friends who know you and like you anyway.”

  —Kathy Herman, author of the Seaport Suspense Novels,

  the Baxter Series, and Poor Mrs. Rigsby

  “Friendship, chocolate, a motor home that’s seen better days . . . and God. Jump on board and enjoy the fun and adventure, with many a surprise and inspiration along the way!”

  —Lorena McCourtney, author of The Ivy Malone Mysteries, Invisible,

  In Plain Sight, and On the Run

  “RV There Yet? is like a best friend whose witty words lift your spirits. The characters of DeDe, Millie, and Lydia are so real, I felt like a fourth friend tagging along on their RV journey. Diann Hunt has an incredible knack for finding the humor in life and a rare talent for expressing it in writing!”

  —Denise Hunter, author of Finding Faith

  “Diann Hunt scores again in her latest book where her trademark humor shines on every page. A delightful cross-country romp, RV There Yet? kept me laughing while it affirmed the value of friendship and reminded me it’s never too late to find new meaning in our lives.”

  —Carol Cox, author of Ticket to Tomorrow

  “RV There Yet? is a delight. Diann Hunt tickles our funny bone while she touches our heart. Hitch a ride and enjoy every mile.”

  —Kathryn Mackel, author of The Hidden

  © 2006 by Diann Hunt

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible and from HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hunt, Diann.

  RV there yet? / Diann Hunt.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1-59554-142-X (softcover)

  1. Female friendship—Fiction. 2. Recreational vehicle living—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3608.U573R86 2006

  813'.6—dc22

  2006003507

  Printed in the United States of America

  06 07 08 09 10 RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  To my sister, Shelia Dawson,

  for our memorable trip

  to Mackinac Island.

  To my sisters-in-law Julie Hunt,

  Patti Hunt, and Beth Wallace,

  for a fun vacation in Florida.

  Anybody want to go RV next time?

  Prologue

  We’re talking three women living in an RV—with one bathroom—and you’re okay with this?” My voice rises with every word across the phone wires of our three-way call.

  “It’s only for a few weeks, DeDe. You can handle it. We have faith in you. Right, Lydia?” Millie says.

  “Sure we do. Come on, Dee, you can do it!” Lydia agrees with all the eagerness of a junior-high cheerleader.

  “Shall I mention that whole hookup process thing?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. This will be great. You and I can fly in to Maine and meet at Lydia’s house. We’ll load up the RV and set off to Colorado. How fun is that?”

  “I have an opinion, but I’ll keep it to myself.” Kicking off my shoes, I stretch my legs and lift them onto the kitchen chair across from me. Tiny red spider veins are gathered at my ankles like a church family at a potluck. Ah, the joys of growing old. I remember when I had not a blemish on my skin. Then again, one day I’ll be lucky to remember anything, so I guess it all evens out.

  “It’s better that way,” Millie says. “Besides, what’s a little discomfort when we’re trying to save Aspen Creek Bible Camp?”

  “Can I answer that?”

  “No,” Millie snaps.

  She can be so rude.

  A bleep sounds across my phone line, and the caller ID says Rob’s calling again. My heart pauses, the familiar ache for this traitor I thought I loved growing more intense. Why can’t he leave me alone?

  “For Aspen Creek!” Lydia quotes the words like a sacred mantra, pulling me from the place where my heart keeps going but my mind tries so carefully to avoid.

  “Okay, so I’m slime.” A speck of lint dots my black chino shorts. I flip it off.

  “You’re not slime,” Lydia defends.

  “Not slime, just opinionated,” Millie argues. “Come on, DeDe, regardless of our personal discomfort, who doesn’t want to save our teenage haven from being closed for all time?”

  “Um, that would be me,” I say.

  “Why don’t you tell us how you really feel?” Millie banters.

  We all laugh.

  “Besides, why wouldn’t you want to go? You had every guy in camp after you,” Millie says with a slightly bitter edge to her voice.

  “Oh, I like the sound of that. Things were pretty good back in the day. Let’s see, there was David, George, Ralph, Tony—”

  “Spare us the gory details,” Millie says, bitter tone still in place.

  Lydia laughs. “Well, her popularity with the guys didn’t hurt us any, Mil. Remember Terry and Russ?”

  “Oh yeah,” Millie says wistfully. I can almost see the stars in her eyes. She liked Russ a lot. “Wonder if he’ll be there?” She quickly adds, “Not that it matters. I’m not ready for another relationship. Still, it would be fun to see him.” Her voices escalates. “Truthfully, Dee, can’t you set aside your fancy hotel rooms to save the camp?”

  “I don’t do RVs. Claustrop
hobia and all that. Wait.” My legs drop to the floor, and I sit up straight. “Did I just see my kitchen walls move toward me? I’m pretty sure I saw that.”

  “You want to be with us, right?” Millie asks.

  It takes me a moment before I’m convinced the walls didn’t move. “Not that much. You snore.” Legs back on the chair.

  Lydia laughs.

  Millie doesn’t. “Come on. This will be great, and you know it. A little R&R, work on the camp with old friends—”

  “Old being the key word here.”

  “David, Tony, George, Ralph—any or all of them could be there.” She hangs each name before me like a dangling carrot. “What do you think, Lydia?” Millie pushes.

  “Well, it would be really fun to connect with our old friends, but I’m a little worried about driving Waldo.”

  Waldo? She’s named her RV Waldo? Okay, this just scares me.

  “Oh, it’s a piece of cake. Bruce and I rented one once,” Millie says, referring to her ex-husband.

  “Well, I suppose if we all take turns,” Lydia says.

  “All of us drive? Need I remind you that I can get lost in a parking garage?” They just don’t get it.

  “We’ll have a map,” Lydia offers.

  “I had a map for the parking garage.”

  They are stunned to silence.

  “I’m kidding.”

  Lydia lets out an audible sigh. Millie snorts.

  “We have to empty our Porta Potti somewhere, Millie. Does that mean anything to you?” I ask.

  “It means we have to find a hole and get busy,” Millie quips.

  “And you’re my friend, why?”

  “Because I make you stretch, DeDe. I’m telling you, we can do this, girls. We must do this for Aspen Creek!” Millie says this as if she’s leading a demonstration in front of the White House.

  “For Aspen Creek!” Lydia joins in.

  “DeDe?” Millie just can’t leave me alone.

  Thoughts of my caller ID come to mind. George, Tony, David, Ralph come to mind. Might not be a bad idea after all. Besides, I need a break. From work. From Rob. From everything. “All right, all right. For Aspen Creek.”

  Millie and Lydia whoop and holler like a couple of seniors on graduation day.

  “It’s all set then. Beverly Hamilton has heard from lots of the alumni already,” Millie says, referring to our longtime friend who took over the position of camp manager when her parents retired. “Most are sending money, but a few are coming to work. What fun to be part of a bigger cause.”

  This should make me feel noble, but I’m not there yet. I’m still stuck on the Porta Potti thing. Well, not literally . . . at least, not yet.

  “Look out, gang! The girls are back in town!” Lydia blurts out of nowhere, practically heaving between breaths. She sounds like a fifty-year-old at a Donny Osmond concert.

  Okay, I’m growing used to the idea. Still, there’s something I just can’t get past.

  You know how you feel when you think there’s a storm a-brewin’ somewhere?

  Yeah, it’s kind of like that.

  1

  Remind me again. I left a shop full of chocolates behind, why?

  Okay, that’s lame. I mean, as a chocolatier I’m surrounded by chocolates every day. Truffles, caramel pecan patties, cherry cordials, chocolate-covered pretzels, mints. A myriad of textures and tastes. One would think I’d be sick of the rich, decadent scent that greets me every morning and causes me to drool like an old lady after a George Clooney sighting. Truth be told, I could use a break. Besides, friends mean more than chocolate.

  And why is that again?

  When I see Lydia Brady running out of her house dressed in jean shorts and a plain pink pullover, the breeze blowing her wavy, shoulder-length hair away from her green eyes and flour-speckled face, I remember.

  Chocolate comforts me for a moment, but friends encourage me for a lifetime. Close friends. Friends like Lydia Brady and Millie Carter.

  We’ve stayed in touch since our camp days over thirty-some years ago. It’s true that at one point we dwindled down to a Christmas card, but we reconnected at the camp reunion six years ago and have stayed in touch through phone calls and e-mail ever since.

  Since Lydia’s husband, Greg, died last November, our bond has been even tighter. We’re determined to see one another through the worst and the best of life. In the last six years, our friendship has seen us through divorce, job changes, kids, and now death. Nothing can separate us.

  Well, except maybe this RV thing.

  After paying the cabdriver, I push open the taxi door, causing it to squawk in protest. Lydia rushes to my side and hugs me fiercely.

  “Oh, sorry,” she says with a laugh, “I got flour on your pretty silk blouse.”

  “No problem,” I say, brushing it off.

  “Silver looks great on you, DeDe, makes your dark eyes stand out. Looks nice with those black pants too.” Lydia looks down at her own top, then touches her hair. “I should have dressed better to meet you girls.”

  “You look wonderful,” I say, giving her one more hug.

  She brightens.

  In spite of all she’s been through, Lydia does look good. She’s put on a little weight since the last time we were together, but then, haven’t we all? It surprises me to see that she’s let her hair go gray, but she still looks pretty. Older, but pretty.

  ’Course, who am I to talk? I have a few more wrinkles—er, uh, laugh lines—than I did in November. But, hey, I laugh a lot.

  My luggage rollers squeak as I pull them over a sidewalk bumpy with age and littered with stubborn weeds that have pushed through the cracks.

  “Millie should be here shortly,” Lydia says, her words coming out in short bursts of air. “I can hardly believe it’s been a month already since we talked about this, and here we are.”

  “Speaking of which, are we sure we want to do this? Could I entice you with a little gourmet chocolate, perhaps, to give up the idea?” Our gazes collide. “I’m teasing here, but then again, maybe not. You, me, Millie, packed in an RV. For endless days?”

  Picture sardines in a can. Speaking of which, I’ve never appreciated sardines. Yet here I am feeling sorry for them. All crammed together in those little metal cans.

  “You don’t mind, do you, DeDe? I mean, you want to do this, right?” We step inside Lydia’s home, and I set the luggage aside. The wrinkles between her eyebrows deepen at the question.

  My heart constricts. Lydia, ever the peacemaker. “Of course I want to do this. Would I miss the chance to get together with my best friends?” Well, maybe I considered it, but she doesn’t need to know that. And just for the record, David, Tony, Ralph, and George had nothing to do with it. Well, okay, maybe Tony, but only a little.

  Her face softens. “I was afraid, you know, because of the RV and all.”

  “What? Just because my idea of roughing it consists of a hotel room without a view?”

  Lydia laughs and leads the way toward the kitchen. “That would be it.”

  When we step close to the room, we are greeted by a glorious aroma. “Something smells delicious and vaguely familiar.”

  “I’m not surprised. There’s chocolate in the air,” Lydia says with a chuckle. “Cappuccino cheesecake with fudge sauce. We’ll have some after dinner.”

  My mouth waters. Closing my eyes, I lift my nose in the air, take a deep breath, then practically start to purr. It’s my natural Pavlovian response to chocolate. “I owe you my firstborn,” I say.

  “You don’t have a firstborn,” she says with a laugh.

  “Well, if I ever get one, you’re down for first dibs.”

  Another grin.

  “No, wait. At my age if I ever get one, medical science will want first dibs.”

  “Oh, you!” Lydia playfully hits my arm. “That’s why you’re so good at running your business, you know. You’re passionate about chocolate.”

  “How pathetic is that, Lydia? I mean, some people
are passionate about world peace, some want to rid the world of poverty, others strive to wipe out disease. Me? My life is devoted to chocolate.”

  Lydia grabs some glasses from the cupboard, fills them with ice cubes and tea. “There’s a place in this world for chocolate connoisseurs.”

  “Yeah, it’s called a kitchen.” The wooden chair at the table scrapes against the ceramic-tiled floor as I pull it out and sit down.

  Lydia laughs and shakes her head.

  “All kidding aside, chocolate is a serious business,” I say in defense of my profession. “Why, did you know that the Aztecs and Mayans were the first to discover the value of the cocoa plant? That’s only because I wasn’t born yet, mind you, but still.”

  Lydia chuckles, and I hurry on.

  “It was brought into the United States in the 1700s. So it’s been around for a while. Lucky for me, or I’d be out of a job.” I’m totally enjoying my little wealth of knowledge until I notice that Lydia isn’t really paying attention to me. With a glance out her kitchen window, she points.

  “You can see Waldo from here,” she says.

  I walk over to the window to see my new home for the next few weeks. One glance and I suddenly understand that “bucket of bolts” concept. Her RV looks tired. It could spring a leak. It needs assisted living. The tan-colored motor home has taupe and blue horizontal stripes around its midsection. Can we say stretch marks?

  Maybe I’ll just visit a day or two and go home.

  “I know he doesn’t look like much,” Lydia says, seeming to read my mind. “He is, after all, fifteen years old, but, hey, I’m no spring chicken and I do okay,” she says with a laugh. We both look out the window once more.

  It surprises me to see Lydia’s RV sitting in a pile of weeds. Her lawn would normally qualify for a magazine photo shoot.

  “I need to work on the lawn,” she says. “Just haven’t had the time.”

  I’m wondering what she does with all her time now that the boys are out of the house and her husband is gone.

  Lydia picks up a glass and hands it to me. Then she grabs one for herself. “Let’s sit down at the table.”

  The wooden chairs creak as we settle into them at the bare oak dining room table that used to be laden with tablecloths and candles.